(Yesterday, right in the midst of posting about FG’s birthday, I started watching the news and wondered whether it was even appropriate to note the day as a happy one around here. I went ahead because life goes ahead but all day I was mindful of the pain and suffering elsewhere. In the middle of the day I wrote the little bit below and then pulled it because it is nothing more than a small observation. Today, the blog community will be full of more thoughtful, more politically savvy posts attempting to wade through this complex puzzle. For me it’s hard to find a voice that fits into that puzzle and I don’t feel compelled to because everything seems to fall woefully short. It’s difficult to write a post that encompasses so much rage and sorrow. But Bonnie covered it well in eleven words. Chris also has an eloquent post that speaks to some of the pieces I was thinking about. Tell me where you found someone who gave voice to the subject in a way that makes sense to you; please share the link in the comments below.)
When I was six and my brother, Bruce, was eight, terrorism reigned. I was so powerless and in need of a hero that he could do just about anything and I would follow and comply. He got me to eat a dried up earthworm saying it was whole wheat macaroni while he and his friends watched and laughed. Even though I knew it was a worm. He talked me into sticking my tongue on the frozen bar of the school door. I followed along eagerly with a plan to stuff a litter of kittens into the tunnel and turn on the Lionel train full speed.
When I was seven I was stronger in all respects. I was learning right from wrong. I had some freedom and autonomy and friends of my own. My brother and I became equals and friends. Because I had a smidgen of power and control over my own life the reign of terror ended.